


helpless to resist the notes i write

by snowenpoint_city



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Musical Theater, F/F, SHOWS UP 8 MONTHS LATE TO 3H FIC WITH STARBUCKS, i FINALLY wrote something for this game and of course it had to be dorogrid
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:13:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23047579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowenpoint_city/pseuds/snowenpoint_city
Summary: Ingrid had devoured book after book of mythology as a little kid, delving into stories about chimeras and gryphons and pegasi and dragons. She had begged Sylvain, Felix, and Dimitri time after time to play out myths with her––Sylvain often claiming the role of Zeus if there was a pretty mortal woman involved in the story––but never did she think she’d meet a siren in real life.
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Ingrid Brandl Galatea
Comments: 7
Kudos: 33





	1. the senses abandon their defenses

“Sylvain, I can’t believe I have to say this,” Ingrid begins, pinching the bridge of her nose, “but no _ , _ I’m not joining tech for  _ Phantom _ to meet people. I’m joining tech because I love theater and, as you know all too well, I can’t sing or act to save my life.”  
  
“Aw, come on,” Sylvain groans from across their lunch table, poised leaning back in his chair to a degree that would make most of their teachers feel glad he wasn’t their responsibility. “A, you haven’t met the cast yet; there are some great catches in it. Including yours truly,” he adds, ignoring the don’t-say-it glares both she and Felix give him. “B, the interviewers won’t want  _ that _ to be your backstory once you direct a hit and get famous. Felix, back me up here.” He lets himself fall forward, chair legs hitting the floor with a wincingly loud whack. 

“If your backup plan to ‘sleep your way to the top’ hasn’t changed, I doubt they’ll want to hear that either,” Felix remarks, looking up from his phone. “Anyway, who cares how she gets there? If she puts on even a half-decent show she’ll get a few thousand people raving about how it’s the new...”  
  
“ _ Wicked _ ,” Sylvain supplies, ignoring the jab.  
  
“The new  _ Wicked _ ,” Felix finishes. “Theater kids are insane.”  
  
“I’m right here, Felix!”   
  
“Duly noted.”

“Anyway, you already know what my actual backstory is going to be, Dr. Doofenshmirtz,” Ingrid returns. “And don’t start thinking about any early press releases, or  _ your _ big break will be when the world learns you hit on my granny when we were in third grade.”   
“It was  _ one _ time!”

The green room has the kind of homey feel only a unique level of dishevelment can bring. As she steps in, Ingrid is first struck by the smell of flowery air freshener, with a lingering odor of musty fabric refusing to be masked. Boxes of old props are stacked like teetering Jenga bricks on top of one another, ready to be rummaged through for accessories this year’s costumes can recycle. Benches and softly glowing vanities line the right-hand wall, complete with printed-out makeup tutorials for newcomers. The lights are low and the few students there, presumably ensemble members or other new applicants, talk in hushed voices––so their voices don’t carry to the stage, she assumes.

A cluster of squishy chairs in one corner serves as a makeshift break room, scripts shining with highlighter marks strewn across the floor and seats. In an especially sunken chair is Ashe, only visible thanks to his untidy silver hair and the heavy photo collection he flips through. Ingrid walks closer and peers over his shoulder at the glossy paper, as he peruses what look like old sets. 

After a few seconds, something seems to strike Ashe and he raises his head. “Oh, Ingrid!” He fumbles for a moment to move himself from the cushy seat, but snaps the book shut and heaves himself up. He smiles brightly at her. “I’m glad to see you! Are you signing up?”

“Hello, Ashe,” Ingrid replies, returning his smile. “Yes, I am. What were you reading?”  
  
Ashe’s eyes light up as he prepares to gush about the book in his arms. “It’s wonderful! It’s an entire collection of all the school’s past productions––there are so many design ideas in here, look!” His thumb skitters over the edge of several pages before he points to the stage arranged like a palace’s elaborate solar, marked  _ Winter 1992: Twelfth Night. _ He flips a few more pages and the book falls open to  _ Fall 2001: Rent _ , with realistically dilapidated and graffitied walls and a rusty set of stairs (those were only painted that way, right…?) leading to several makeshift rooms. “Isn’t it amazing to think about?”  
  
“Wow,” Ingrid murmurs. She recalls with a touch of chagrin the period in middle school when she had tried to draw her own characters and settings, thinking  _ make the skirt a little shorter, lengthen the sword like so, _ and ending up with a bunch of shaky lines that resembled a child’s attempt to mimic their parents’ fancy scrawled signatures. She wonders at the bold lines and the composition, the way everything seems to draw her eye just enough to keep her interested. With a background like this, no one would pay the slightest attention if an actor scratched their ear or missed their cue by a half-second or forgot their next line. Wait, forgotten. What had she forgotten?

“Oh, right.” She smacks herself mentally. “I think Linhardt’s supposed to assign me a job, do you know where he is?”

“Sorry! Of course!” Ashe apologizes eagerly, tucking the book back under one arm and running over to a figure slumped in front of a vanity. “Lin, this is––Lin, wake up, please?”    
“It can’t wait?” the figure yawns heavily, lifting a head of long dark-green hair.

“No, it’s still rehearsal, remember? We have new people signing up today.” Ashe’s voice remains untroubled as he gently grabs the other boy’s shoulder and lifts him into something approximating a sitting position. 

“Oh, yes. Sorry…” The green-haired boy blinks blearily at Ingrid before offering his hand. “I’m Linhardt. The stage manager. It’s just so dark in here and I sat down to go over some notes, so…”

She can’t really blame him, Ingrid thinks as she takes the offered handshake. This place would be a dream meditation room for Dimitri and Felix after games. “Nice to meet you, Linhardt. I’m Ingrid, and I was told to talk to you for tech assignments.”

“Of course.” He stands up a little straighter and, turning back to the binder he’d used as a makeshift pillow, quickly rifles through it before pulling out a sheet with check marks and X’s scattered across it. “A few people came in already, but we currently have an opening on… spot two. Is that all right with you? If you’re not a fan of high places, there are other options.” His voice turns into much more of a bored monotone by the end of the speech he’s obviously used to.   
  
“That’s perfect, actually.” Ingrid smiles. “Anything I should know first?”  
  
Linhardt yawns again, apparently relieved to have the hard part out of the way. “No, not really. We have a master list of light cues, and you just need to watch the actors as they walk so you can keep the light moving okay… You can try and work on that now, or just do the cues and watch for today so you can do it on our next run-through.”

“I’ll give it a try. Thank you, Linhardt.”  
  
“Welcome to  _ Phantom, _ Ingrid!” Ashe exclaims, having disappeared and reappeared with a headset that has her name written on a piece of fresh white tape across the headband.

Ingrid gladly takes the headset, endures Linhardt’s spiel about how important it is (the effect somewhat reduced by the fact that he starts nodding off halfway through) and follows a tiny freshman called Lysithea’s directions across the stage and up to the catwalk.   
_ This might not be so bad. _ _  
_ _  
_   
__ This is bad.  
  
“Ingrid?”

Ashe’s voice goes unheard, melting into the lazy crackle of static in her headset. She’s stuck, dumbfounded, one hand on the spotlight’s switch but suddenly robbed of the strength to push it up. 

Ingrid had devoured book after book of mythology as a little kid, delving into stories about chimeras and gryphons and pegasi and dragons. She had begged Sylvain, Felix, and Dimitri time after time to play out myths with her––Sylvain often claiming the role of Zeus if there was a pretty mortal woman involved in the story––but never did she think she’d meet a siren in real life. 

The girl onstage has startling green eyes, with an amused look visible all the way from the catwalk. Her chestnut hair shines in the low ambient light of the spots that criss-crossed the stage, curls swinging as she steps forward to her mark.

“Hey, Lin… Lin?” She raises her voice––a curious alto that makes Ingrid’s throat go dry––and calls toward the back of the room. “Is there something wrong? You said there’d be a light cue for when I’m supposed to start singing…”

“Oh…” Linhardt groans, his voice clearly tired even through the tinny headphone. Ingrid makes a mental note to talk to him about sleeping on the job. “You’re right, Dorothea. Hold…” he orders. A brief pause, the crackle of turning pages in a script. “Ingrid–– _ yawn–– _ you’re on with the spot once she enters from stage left, you know that, right?”

“Ye––” She swallows. Oh god, she wishes she had a bottle of water up here. Or preferably away from the expensive lights. Or preferably where she wouldn’t have to have another heart attack at the sight of Dorothea. “Yes, sorry, Linhardt. I’ve got it.”  _ Oh no, I’ll have to hear her sing once I turn it on, won’t I? _


	2. tremulous and tender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hearing Dorothea sing inspires a lot of new thoughts in Ingrid. A lot of which are about how utterly dead she is.

_Think of me––_

Oh, no.

_Think of me fondly,_

Oh no, no, no.

_When we’ve said good-bye,_

Oh dear god, no, please.

 _Remember me,_ Dorothea sings, a pleading note in her voice, _once in a while; please promise me you’ll try…_

That’s it, Ingrid realizes as the high notes swell throughout the auditorium. She’s completely and utterly screwed. Dorothea’s voice is angelic, by turns commandingly loud and soft enough to entice an audience to listen from the edge of their seats. The soft piano of the rehearsal track, playing from small monitor speakers at the front of the stage, is like a wave for Dorothea to ride, a perfect supplement to her voice that smoothly slides between phrases as she takes another breath. The rich sound permeates the entire room without even a mic. She never misses a beat, never goes the slightest bit flat, just continues unabated and unaware of the effect she has on the girl atop the catwalk. It’s all Ingrid can do to stand blankly in place and follow the girl onstage with her spot, her hands swiveling it on its stand almost automatically, as if Dorothea’s voice is so compelling that even the lights in the room bend toward her.

 _...There will never be a day, when I don’t think of you,_ Dorothea croons, and Ingrid’s arms run cold with goosebumps as Dorothea’s crystal voice fades, her eyelids lowered and lips pursed gently. 

_Can it be? Can it be Christine?_ murmurs a boy Ingrid recognizes from history––Ferdinand, she thinks. The light seems to fade from Ingrid’s eyes as Dorothea stops singing, and she isn’t sure if it’s due to the rest of the stage being relit or to the loss of that haunting voice.

“Ingrid?” Ashe’s voice crackles in her ear.

“I’m here,” she replies, trying to keep her voice from stammering.

“Your spot is still on.”

_Shit._

Ingrid’s eye starts to twitch slightly as she studies the preternaturally organized notes Lysithea had given her. Resetting the lighting console had sounded like an okay job when Linhardt had assigned it to her after rehearsal, but the sheer number of switches to slide to the correct spot, then check, recheck, and make sure weren’t playing a New Year’s Eve light show on stage was going to drive her insane. The complex drawing of the console and the incomprehensible script make it look like the plans for the damn Death Star, Ingrid notes wearily as she pushes another two switches into place, taps a couple buttons to reset whatever it is they do, and turns again to the paper crammed with tiny handwriting. 

The resounding _tong_ of shoes on metal stairs snaps Ingrid out of her reverie. Maybe the petite perfectionist herself had come to scoff at her for taking so long. “Lysithea,” she begins with a deep breath to keep her voice as free of venom as possible, stepping out of the control booth toward the stairwell door, “I’m thankful that you gave me these notes to help with the lighting, but I’m having just a little trouble…”

“Oh, sorry.” A girl’s voice, lower than Lysithea’s and only slightly taken aback, floats up the stairwell. “I thought tech was over, I just came to check up here.” 

Dorothea steps forward with a light ringing of metal, green eyes peering up at Ingrid from under the brim of her black cap. “Lin likes to catch naps up there sometimes. Quieter away from the hubbub, you know. He’s not…” She nods toward the booth, hair swinging slightly. 

“Ah––no.” Ingrid realizes too late her throat is again dry at the sound of Dorothea’s voice, a lilt that continues to nag at the back of her mind with a strange familiarity. She knows Dorothea’s not an athlete (she would remember seeing her face at tryouts) or a cheerleader (if so, Sylvain would probably have left theater when they were still freshmen), and racks her brain trying to think of how she knows her. “He left a- a while ago.” 

“Oh, okay.” She begins to mount the steps, hands clasped behind her back. “And what about you? _Too grieved a heart to take a tedious leave?_ ” Dorothea smiles widely, the line falling easy and practiced from her lips.

Ingrid laughs in spite of her nerves at seeing the actress again. The line jumps out at her, anachronous to Dorothea’s black skinny jeans and mid-calf boots and bizarre to hear in her curious, playful tones. No matter her dominating stage presence, her bewitching singing voice, it feels strange to imagine her as Christine, swooning onstage and dwelling on dreams. _Stage presence––_ Ingrid again reaches for snatches of memory–– _why do I know her? Why do I remember her so strongly?_

Slowly it comes back to her. Dorothea’s haunting voice floats up to her again, this time pinning her into her desk chair rather than to her light. She sits awestruck in the front row, watching her enthusiastically recite Shakespeare––

“You were in honors English with me.” Ingrid’s eyes widen in recollection. She remembers now, being stunned by Dorothea’s passionate recitals, how she carried the weight of all her groups when they were assigned to perform scenes, her energy turning the drab classroom into a shining stage for a couple minutes at a time.

Dorothea’s shoes clang to a stop on the stairs as her eyebrows rise in return. “That’s right! It’s Ingrid, isn’t it? I remember your essays always got used as examples.” She grins as the memories return to her. “No one thought you could turn in that kind of work in so little time. They said you were the best liar in the world––or that you psychoanalyzed the authors yourself.”

“Lying is just acting, and I’m no good as an actor.” Ingrid shakes her head, lips forming a smile.

“If that were all it took, Claude would be on Broadway by now,” Dorothea scoffs at their classmate’s name, climbing the rest of the way and leaning on the railing of the catwalk. “So anyway, what keeps you here so late?”

“Oh, I’m just making sure everything is set for tomorrow. Lighting cues and stuff.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Dorothea’s jade eyes look genuinely eager as she turns her head, and Ingrid remembers how she had frozen seeing her onstage for the first time.

“No,” Ingrid says with what she hopes is resolve, praying she can move past that, “but thanks. I just need a better look at Lysithea’s instructions for the console–”

“Oh, Lys…” Dorothea sighs. “I know the feeling. She just doesn’t understand that we weren’t all born with a silver report card in our hands. I've threatened to make Lin restrict her computer to using Comic Sans before, usually that works.”

Ingrid lets out a barking laugh. “If you can read her handwriting, I’d welcome the help.” She grabs the sheet of paper and offers it to Dorothea, who lifts it gently from her fingers. Dorothea squeezes past her into the control booth, Ingrid subconsciously pulling herself tighter against the doorframe to avoid brushing shoulders with her, and stares at the maze of slides and buttons before tapping four of them with the familiarity of a password.

She pushes the switches into place for the opening number within a minute. “I… think that’s done. How do I know if I got it right?” 

“I don’t know. Let’s try turning it on for a second…” Ingrid reaches around Dorothea, pressing the large on button, and the stage comes to life. 

Pools of gold and green light bloom onstage. In the silence, Ingrid can just hear the whine of the small spots in the rafters as they cast their lights about, and she watches as they cut bright white paths through the gentle glow. They spiral around one another before sweeping to the edges, and one large spotlight replaces them in the center, waiting expectantly for a singer to hit their mark. Ingrid manages to tear herself away and look at Dorothea, and she can tell that the girl next to her is filling in the gaps, just as she is, with actors and set pieces, fast-forwarding to opening night. Dorothea stands transfixed on the stage, with her lips moving gently as she mouths the lyrics to _Think of Me_ once again _,_ face suffused with light that manages to make her brilliant green eyes sparkle even more than they already do.

“Beautiful,” Ingrid blurts out in spite of herself. 

“Hmm?” Dorothea turns to her, eyebrows raised.

 _Shit, shit, shit,_ she thinks as she regains control far too late. “Ah! The, uh, lights are, aren’t they? Beautiful? I couldn’t stop- watching them.” She trips over her words in an effort to make clear that _no,_ she definitely wasn’t just staring at Dorothea’s far more interesting face.

“Ah–yeah, they are, of course.” Dorothea blinks for a second, caught off guard. “Well, I should go if that’s everything.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to keep you! Thanks for all your help with the lighting.”

“Any time, Ingrid,” she replies with a wide smile, crinkling eyes so much brighter than those spotlights. “I’ll be happy to come back up here if you ever need me.”

Ingrid watches Dorothea’s hair bounce through the door to the stairwell, waits for the _clangs_ of her boots on the metal steps to fade away, and only once she hears the door at the bottom of the stairs slam shut does she let herself slump down into a chair.

Well, she’s absolutely screwed now, isn’t she.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG!! for some reason i didn't even think to open with ingrid listening to dorothea sing for the longest time so then i spent a few days berating myself for that, then it took a while to actually write, and now here we are! as always hope you enjoy

**Author's Note:**

> *adds dorogrid to my wip folder* *adds dorogrid to my wip folder* *adds dorogrid to my w*  
> i love these two so much and they got cheated out of an a rank/ending!! shoutout to the dorogrid discord at https://discord.gg/pNJGw5Q for their (financial) support


End file.
